


Carbonado

by Saki101



Series: Other Experiments [31]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe, M/M, Science Fiction, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 10:06:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saki101/pseuds/Saki101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excerpt:  “Good evening, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said, looming at the edge of Greg’s desk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carbonado

**Author's Note:**

> This is a continuation of the [Other Experiments Series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/15644) which forms an AU frame for the _Experiments Series_ which begins with [Zygomata](http://archiveofourown.org/works/331460). _Carbonado_ follows [Scintillation](http://archiveofourown.org/works/496634).

A shadow fell across the paper on Lestrade’s desk as he scrawled his signature at the bottom. He reminded himself to e-mail maintenance in the morning. The ceiling light had been flickering for a week, and he kept forgetting to send a reminder to replace it, too busy during his shift, too keen to leave at the end of the day for a bit of relaxation. A bit of life balance, to use HR-speak. _Yes._ Lestrade added the date next to his name, a slight smile on his face. Smiles were so much easier to come by these days. The shadow grew larger. Greg looked up.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft said, looming at the edge of Greg’s desk.

Lestrade tilted his head back a little to meet Mycroft’s gaze. _You don’t do the manic part, but you and Sherlock have a lot of moves in common. Stealthy, the pair of you._ Greg would have said it aloud if he knew how much Mycroft knew. Generally, he assumed Mycroft knew everything. Where Sherlock was concerned, however, that wasn’t a valid assumption, although Mycroft certainly tried to know. John had confirmed that what Greg had known from the years before John, hadn’t changed in that regard. John had also told Greg what Mycroft had revealed about Moriarty. Greg planned to weigh his words accordingly. 

Mycroft drew his pocket watch out to check the time. “Not working many double shifts lately, I note.”

Greg didn’t rise to the bait and ask why Mycroft had been keeping track of a humble DI’s work schedule. “Work-life balance,” Greg smiled, gaze unwavering. Deception, interrogation were part of his job, too. There was the question of how much Mycroft had had to do with Lestrade still having his job, but Greg didn’t let that show on his face. If Mycroft had been involved, it would have been for his own reasons.

“Most wise. But there’s a case that I would have thought would be keeping you late,” Mycroft said.

Greg waited, expression open, the model public servant.

“To be more precise, there should be a case keeping you late, but there isn’t, which is contrary to the usual pattern,” Mycroft finished, leaning slightly to the left on his umbrella. “I look for patterns in my work. Observe when they change.”

Greg’s chair creaked slightly as he leaned back in it, arms casually slipping onto the arm rests, patiently accommodating Mycroft’s indirect manner of speaking.

Mycroft’s eyes took it all in. “Usually friends or family report someone missing for more than a few days to the police. John Watson is several months overdue from a few weeks’ holiday and none of his friends or family have filed a report.”

“Have you spoken with his sister?” Greg asked.

Mycroft smiled tightly. “It isn’t easy to find her in a lucid moment.”

Greg managed to suppress any trace of a smile. Harry had been doing very well with her drinking, but she could do a hell of an impersonation of a drunk. “Mrs Hudson? Dr Sawyer?”

Mycroft’s smile was even fainter. “They both said something about a change of scene and Médecins Sans Frontiéres, but their records do not include a Dr John Watson. Well, rather they do, but it isn’t our Dr John Watson.” Greg tilted his head with polite interest. “It is a rather common name,” Mycroft said.

Greg let himself smile at that. “I had a postcard from John about a month ago. Beach in Rio.” Greg raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Quite scenic.”

“I would be interested in seeing it,” Mycroft said, the set of his lips softening slightly as the look in his eyes sharpened.

Greg shook his head. “Not possible. One of my neighbours has a puppy...”

“The dog ate it?” Mycroft asked with a trace of something between exasperation and amusement in his voice.

“Afraid so,” Greg said. “But John sounded fine.”

“As you were preparing to leave, perhaps we could discuss what you recall about the contents of his communication over dinner,” Mycroft said, taking his phone out of his pocket and pushing a few buttons before tucking it away. “You see, Sherlock asked me to look after John.”

The dinner invitation caught Greg off guard, but not the mention of Sherlock. Greg assumed an appropriately mournful expression at the name. Mycroft’s answering expression was harder than usual to read, but Greg was sure that if Sherlock wanted Mycroft to know he was still alive and where he and John were, Mycroft wouldn’t be in his office.

“Well, I am hungry. There’s a good pub a few blocks away,” Greg said, confident that Mycroft had no intention of eating pub food, not even gastro pub food. 

“I have reservations elsewhere,” Mycroft said. “I think you’ll find it satisfactory. The car’s waiting.” Mycroft gestured towards the door as Greg stood and rounded the desk. It was a dangerous move, but Sherlock wasn’t the only one who loved a challenge.

****** 

 

“Why me, when all these years they haven’t spoken to you of it?” John asked. Sherlock waited for John to enter the code in the door. John needed to practice. 

Sherlock unwrapped his scarf, dropped the beige coat over the desk chair. The walk back had been cold, their feet raising puffs of dust. John could feel the grit on his skin. He reached for the switch. The shades drew back and let in the glorious sky. He felt lonely without it. He missed London, their life in it, but he wondered if he could live under its shrouded skies again, make due with just the moon.

“It was Bertrand’s idea. You made quite an impression on him,” Sherlock replied, slipping his jacket off. He sat at the desk and pushed off his shoes. “It’s an exchange. You have something to trade that I never did.”

John turned his eyes away from the sky, watched Sherlock’s skin catch the pale light.

“Something’s happening to you similar to what happened to them. They feel a kinship with you, it seems. Look how you reacted to what they wrote. Understood something in it I couldn’t see at all,” Sherlock continued, standing to remove his trousers.

“Maybe, but I don’t think so,” John said. He hung his jacket on the back of the door, stepped out of his shoes. “What’s happening in your body and mine is similar – a sharing of biological material, although the composition of the material shared differs. Yours has attributes mine doesn’t. The chemical analysis needs to go much deeper to map the differences, but human genes exist on both sides. That wouldn’t have been the case for them.” 

Sherlock considered as he undid his shirt buttons. “Whether it’s rational or not, they feel an affinity with what you’re experiencing. Well, Bertrand does and he seems to have convinced my father to explore it.” 

John glanced back at the sky. “What could have been conveyed just by the light?” John mused aloud.

“I’m not sure we are limited to light, but even if we were, visible light would only be part of it,” Sherlock said.

“Yes, radio waves, gamma waves, but if they aren’t carrying chemical material then they are just rearranging what is already there. Like the radiation example you used. That’s an alteration of what is already there, not an addition, a merging,” John said.

“Maybe it wasn’t a merging then,” Sherlock said. “That’s a possibility. One I’ve been attracted to, but I keep my mind open to other explanations.”

John shifted his gaze to Sherlock again. He stood nude in the middle of the room, head tilted up, thick curls loose. “I do find them beautiful, John, but they do not fill me with the yearning I can see in your very muscles when you look at them.” John stepped closer to Sherlock. “It’s odd and I don’t like to admit it, but it’s information that could be relevant if _feelings_ somehow play a part in this process. I resent the way you look at the sky. I dislike that you see more than pleasing patterns of light there.”

John touched Sherlock’s arm, like marble in the light. “I’m resenting that I’m not tall enough to see your face as you look up,” John said.

“Can be rectified,” Sherlock said and bent at the knees until they touched the floor. 

John looked down, brushed the fingertips of both hands along Sherlock’s cheekbones, followed the line of his jaw with his thumbs. “Your eyes are reflecting the stars,” he whispered. “You can’t imagine how beautiful that is.” John rubbed his thumbs over Sherlock’s lips. “If anyone can figure this out, it will be you, Sherlock. We’ll all gather as many facts as we can and you’ll put them together somehow and figure out what they mean.” John’s fingers combed back into Sherlock’s hair. “That’s what happens when you look at something like this,” John said.

“I’m looking at you, John,” Sherlock whispered.

“I know,” John said and leaned down until his lips met Sherlock’s.

**** 

“I was afraid you were going to do this,” John said. Sherlock looked up from the computer across the room. John could smell the coffee Sherlock had made for himself and forgotten to drink. “Come back to bed, then. If you’re going to go, I need to make love to you again first.” One side of Sherlock’s lips lifted in half a smile. “Don’t make fun of the phrase, Sherlock. It’s what I do with you, make love.” 

Sherlock typed a few more sentences. John watched. The side of Sherlock’s robe slipped off his thigh. He hadn’t put on anything else. The sun brightened the room despite the dark shades. It was directly overhead. 

“I use the word afraid knowingly as well,” John said. Sherlock shut the laptop.

“We nipped the pneumonia in the bud, but you’re not strong enough to come with me yet and the trail will go cold. I can’t wait.”

“I know. I’m not trying to stop you. I just want you to know I’m afraid and I know that you appreciate that that isn’t something I admit to lightly,” John said, pulling the sheet back. Sherlock turned in his chair to look at John, his eyes taking in each detail of John’s expression, every nuance of his posture. The only sounds in the room were the hum of the air conditioner and the hiss of the humidifier. “Come to bed,” John repeated. “My blood feels different in my veins.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied and got up. “I’ll be careful. I know it’s not my usual style, but I’ll be careful and come back as soon as I can. Two weeks, less if I can manage it.”

“Don’t change your style. It’s kept you alive this long. Just come back,” John said and closed his eyes. “I survived your going to Havana and Mexico City from Panama; I can survive this.”

“I was only gone a few days each time,” Sherlock said, sliding into the bed.

“Are you arguing against your own case?” John asked.

“You’ll lie here naked and gaze at the night sky,” Sherlock said, “and I won’t be here to distract you.”

“You mean re-focus my attention where it should be – on you,” John clarified, turning onto his side to face Sherlock.

“Exactly.” 

“You’re not shy about it,” John observed. Sherlock was studying the light making its way through the weave of the shades.

“No. I had time to think about it when I was gone,” Sherlock said. He pointed to the ceiling. “I need to check the retraction mechanism for the shades and the skylights,” he said. “Something is wearing the fabric thin there.”

“Hmm.” John could see the spot. “I suppose my attention was on you most of the time you were gone,” John replied.

“I encouraged that.”

“My carte-blanche forgiveness has freed your tongue, hasn’t it?” John remarked. He reached over and rested his open palm on Sherlock’s stomach.

“Yes. It was a good idea, wasn’t it?” 

“I think it was. I’d rather have as much information as I can about what’s going on in your head,” John said, moving closer. Sherlock met his eyes for a moment. “Fine. I couldn’t absorb all that’s going on in your mind. I’d still like as much as I can get.”

“It makes me anxious,” Sherlock said. 

“The connection in Johannesburg? You think your sources are unreliable?” John asked, blowing out a long stream of air. It moved the curls at Sherlock’s temple. “I prefer being with you when things go wrong.”

Sherlock turned his head. “You aren’t stupid.” 

“Yes, thank you. I like to think so.” 

“It’s just another thing Mycroft was wrong about. You are brave. And it’s a very mindful bravery,” Sherlock said. “But I can manage on my own, although I prefer it when you’re with me. I’ve become accustomed to it once more.”

John brought his hand up to Sherlock’s face. “You are making me extremely nervous here. You’re not planning to sacrifice yourself again, are you?”

“No. I have every intention of being thoroughly successful.” Sherlock took an inventory of John’s face. “So as interesting as interviewing Bertrand and my father may be and as engaging as the related biochemical explorations should be…I do envy you them…take care of yourself. When I return, John, I want you fit enough to come with me next time.”

There were his orders to follow, multi-faceted, but clear. Something settled in John’s mind and something stirred in his body. 

******** 

Sherlock studied his face in the long, oval mirror, pulled the band from his hair. The dark blond curls fell forward, brushing his shoulders. The expensive clothing he had acquired was visible, laid out on the four-poster bed behind him. He smiled. The slicked back, pony-tailed style had suited his previous disguise. His next persona required a different look. Sherlock turned towards the bathroom. He needed to shampoo away the tell-tale wrinkle the band had left.

**** 

The man behind the enormous teak desk stood and came around it, arm already extended to meet Sherlock as he was ushered into the wood-panelled office by the demurely attractive assistant. “Monsieur de Groot,” the diamond merchant said. “What a pleasure to meet you in person.”

Sherlock noted the evaluating sweep of Mr Huysmann’s eyes, the accompanying change in body language and understood that the formulaic statement was true. Sherlock inclined his head politely in acknowledgement and held out his be-ringed hand. He observed Huysmann dating the antique gold signet on his smallest finger to within a decade.

 

“This piece, for example,” Sherlock said and pulled a small leather box from his waistcoat pocket. Huysmann’s eyes followed the movement, noted the fit of the garment, squinted at the dark patterns in the tapestry fragment that had been fashioned into the front panels. “The emerald is of superior quality whereas the border of diamonds is not.” Without leaning forward in his chair, Sherlock stretched out his arm and set the tie pin on the desk top. “To restore it properly, inferior diamonds of just the right shade are required _and_ each then needs to be cut in a manner that is no longer used. I’m sure you are familiar with the incomplete refraction of older diamonds.”

Huysmann leaned across his desk and took up the piece. For a moment, his attention was focussed entirely on the jewellery. He rotated it and held it up to the light. There were two tiny diamonds missing. “Replacing the whole border is not an option?” he asked.

Sherlock gestured with an upturned palm and two extended fingers. “It is always a question, isn’t it? To preserve as much as possible of the original or to alter it for convenience or even with the intention of improving it. It is ever a matter of opinion, of philosophy, we could even say. My clients tend towards a conservative view of maintaining as many of the original elements in their treasures as possible. You can imagine the time necessary to find the right match and in sufficient quantity for any particular repair.” 

Huysmann still held the jewel between his fingertips, but his eyes had gone back to Sherlock as he spoke, flitting to Sherlock’s hand when he gestured and returning to his mouth as Sherlock formed each perfectly enunciated word.

Sherlock had considered Huysmann’s reputation as a collector of eighteenth and nineteenth century antiques when he decided on his disguise, selected his attire for the appointment. Neither the expensive fabric of his suit nor the silken fall of his hair had escaped Huysmann’s notice. Sherlock did not yet favour him with a smile. “So you can see why the opportunity to scan all your diamonds, before they are cut, would be of value to me. Even those below jewellery grade, because those were used on boxes, buckles and some garments.” He met Huysmann’s eyes for an instant. “I have an opera cape,” Sherlock’s arms bent from the elbows, one hand poised higher than the other, as if he held a length of heavy cloth between them. I need scores of stones for that restoration.”

Huysmann moistened his lips. “All diamonds?”

“No, pearls of different sizes and a quantity of jet as well. I have good sources for those. For coloured jewels, I usually go to India or Myanmar. Columbia for the emeralds, of course,” Sherlock said. “Diamonds are required in greater quantities, however, and it pains me to cannibalise less valuable pieces for them, but sometimes, I have had no other choice.” Sherlock’s eyebrows slanted with regret.

Huysmann’s face mirrored the expression, his eyes caught by Sherlock’s for a moment before they shifted back to Sherlock’s hands, moving from one to the other as if he beheld the sumptuous fabric draped there. Sherlock lowered his hands. Huysmann’s gaze wandered from the gold chain glimmering across Sherlock’s waistcoat up to the open neck of Sherlock’s snowy shirt and finally to his eyes. “Tonight,” Huysmann began, “I will be joining several other board members in our company box at the opera.” His eyes dropped to Sherlock’s lips. “If,” Huysmann said, “you were free to join us…” He glanced again at Sherlock’s hands as if to check whether the opulent cape had appeared, “we might be able to come to an agreement during the interval over champagne.”

Sherlock slipped his hand inside his jacket and consulted his phone. “What time?” he asked.

“Half seven,” Huysmann replied. “They’re performing Mozart’s _Il Seraglio_.”

Sherlock flicked through a few screens, hit a couple buttons. “Possibly,” he said slowly, without looking up.

“I could send the company limousine,” Huysmann said.

Sherlock glanced up. “No need. I’ll meet you there. Leave word at the box office.” Sherlock stood and put his mobile away.

“Oh,” Huysmann said, standing as well and pulling his eyes up from the dark shimmer of the lining of Sherlock’s jacket. Sherlock extended his hand, palm up. Huysmann looked puzzled for an instant before remembering the tie pin. He placed it in Sherlock’s hand. He watched Sherlock deftly replace it in its worn leather box, then came around the desk to walk Sherlock to the door. He opened it and offered his hand. “Until this evening,” Huysmann said. Sherlock shook the hand and favoured Huysmann with the ghost of a smile before he strode away. Huysmann watched until Sherlock disappeared through the doors of the outer office.

**** 

John turned his eyes away from the telescope. “It’s overwhelming.” 

“It’s never lost its impact on me,” Dr Holmes replied, running a hand through his thin, grey hair. “Even living with them as I have, the wonder has never faded.”

 _Like living with Sherlock._ John slipped out of the chair, eyes on Dr Holmes whose face was still tilted upwards. John had to catch himself from speaking to him as though their acquaintance was less positive and of much longer duration. Despite the meatier physique, the way Holmes held his body, his manner of speech all elicited John's reactions to Mycroft. John glanced away as a door huffed open and Bertrand walked towards the telescope to join them.

“So, breakfast, gentlemen?” Bertrand said, smiling first at John and then at Arthur Aaron Holmes, his smile brightening as he patted his friend on the arm. Holmes looked down from the sky with a warmer expression than John had ever seen on Mycroft's face.

John considered them, thought of the decades that had passed since they stood on Bart’s roof with Holmes’ father and Bertrand’s little cousin, watching the Perseids streak across a mid-nineteenth century sky. John looked down at this hands. He wished for that many years with Sherlock.

Bertrand glanced back at John. “You’ve kept him up all night,” Bertrand admonished Aaron. “You look pale, John. Food, both of you, now.” Bertrand took their arms. “I’ve re-read almost thirty years of correspondence for today and now he’s going to fall asleep after breakfast.”

John raised his eyebrows. “You found your discs?” John asked. 

“Four of them,” Bertrand said. “I’d tucked them behind some Vivaldi CDs I’d packed. I knew I had put them somewhere safe.” John smiled, not at all sure Bertrand hadn’t been able to locate them earlier. “So we can move on from reminiscences to contemporaneous documentation,” Bertrand declared. John caught his eye. “Of a sort. I’m afraid you’re going to know more about Aaron and me by the end of it than you ever wished. It’s mostly my personal correspondence. Everything’s all mixed together.” Bertrand and Aaron exchanged a look as they stepped outside. John zipped up his jacket. “Towards the end of the letters, we were beginning to understand that we weren’t aging as our contemporaries were and began giving some thought to exploring our situation scientifically. The earlier records were just our thoughts and impressions.” 

John nodded, tilting his head back. The stars were still visible above them, but the hills along the horizon were outlined in white. “I found them rather beautiful.” 

“They’ve frustrated Sherlock no end,” Aaron said, opening the door to the dining hall.

“I guess that’s why he gave this part of the research over to me,” John said and followed them inside.

**** 

Sherlock touched the tip of his tongue to his champagne before taking a sip. Below them the musicians were tuning their instruments in the orchestra pit. He had concluded the deal with Huysmann and his colleagues during the interval, observing their interactions with one another. Huysmann was in charge, but he wasn’t in a position to make completely independent decisions. Sherlock crossed his legs, saw Huysmann be distracted by the gleam of patent leather. Huysmann spilt a drop of champagne on his trousers. Sherlock pulled a white handkerchief embroidered in white from his breast pocket and handed it to him. Huysmann stared at the delicate fabric which was almost transparent where it wasn’t covered with arabesques of silk thread. He dabbed it gingerly to his leg and returned it. Sherlock plucked it from Huysmann’s fingers without touching them, turned his head back to the opening curtain as he tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see that Huysmann was watching him and not the stage.

**** 

Bertrand had been right. John’s eyes were nearly closed by the time they had finished breakfast. “Go to bed, John,” Bertrand said. “We’ll catch up at tea time.”

John scrubbed his hand across his face and nodded. “Even three cups of tea didn’t do it,” he sighed, getting up. “Don’t lose track of them before I wake up,” he added.

“Never fear,” Bertrand said. 

John headed across the hall for the door.

“Is he all right?” Aaron asked. “How long has it been?” 

“Seventeen days,” Bertrand replied.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> A continuation of the first scene between Mycroft and Lestrade may be read [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/969344).


End file.
